File No. 113 by Emile Gaboriau (10 ebook reader TXT) 📕

And he began to whistle between his teeth; which, with M. Verduret, was a sign of intense inward satisfaction.

“What seems so, monsieur?” inquired Prosper.

“What has just happened; what I have been tracing. Parbleu!” he exclaimed, imitating the manner of a showman at a fair, “here is a lovely town, called St. Remy, six thousand inhabitants; charming boulevards on the site of the old fortifications; handsome hotel; numerous fountains; large charcoal market, silk factories, famous hospital, and so on.”

Prosper was on thorns.

“Please be so good, monsieur, as to explain what you–-”

“It also contains,” continued M. Verduret, “a Roman triumphal arch, which is of unparalleled beauty, and a Greek mausoleum; but no Lagors. St. Remy is the native town of Nostradamus, but not of your friend.”

“Yet I have proofs.”

“Naturally. But proofs can be fabricated; relatives can be improvised. Your evidence is open to suspicion. My proofs are undeniable, perfectly authenticated. While you were pining in prison, I was preparing my batteries and collecting munition to open fire. I wrote to St. Remy, and received answers to my questions.”

“Will you let me know what they were?”

“Have patience,” said M. Verduret as he turned over the leaves of his memoranda. “Ah, here is number one. Bow respectfully to it, ‘tis official.”

He then read:

“‘LAGORS.—Very old family, originally from Maillane, settled at St. Remy about a century ago.’”

“I told you so,” cried Prosper.

“Pray allow me to finish,” said M. Verduret.

“‘The last of the Lagors (Jules-Rene-Henri) bearing without warrant the title of count, married in 1829 Mlle. Rosalie-Clarisse Fontanet, of Tarascon; died December 1848, leaving no male heir, but left two daughters. The registers make no mention of any person in the district bearing the name of Lagors.’

“Now what do you think of this information?” queried the fat man with a triumphant smile.

Prosper looked amazed.

“But why did M. Fauvel treat Raoul as his nephew?”

“Ah, you mean as his wife’s nephew! Let us examine note number two: it is not official, but it throws a valuable light upon the twenty thousand livres income of your friend.”

”’Jules-Rene-Henri de Lagors, last of his name, died at St. Remy on the 29th of December, 1848, in a state of great poverty. He at one time was possessed of a moderate fortune, but invested it in a silk-worm nursery, and lost it all.

“‘He had no son, but left two daughters, one of whom is a teacher at Aix, and the other married a retail merchant at Orgon. His widow, who lives at Montagnette, is supported entirely by one of her relatives, the wife of a rich banker in Paris. No person of the name of Lagors lives in the district of Arles.’

“That is all,” said M. Verduret; “don’t you think it enough?”

“Really, monsieur, I don’t know whether I am awake or dreaming.”

“You will be awake after a while. Now I wish to remark one thing. Some people may assert that the widow Lagors had a child born after her husband’s death. This objection has been destroyed by the age of your friend. Raoul is twenty-four, and M. de Lagors has not been dead twenty years.”

“But,” said Prosper thoughtfully, “who can Raoul be?”

“I don’t know. The fact is, I am more perplexed to find out who he is, than to know whom he is not. There is one man who could give us all the information we seek, but he will take good care to keep his mouth shut.”

“You mean M. de Clameran?”

“Him, and no one else.”

“I have always felt the most inexplicable aversion toward him. Ah, if we could only get his account in addition to what you already have!”

“I have been furnished with a few notes concerning the Clameran family by your father, who knew them well; they are brief, but I expect more.”

“What did my father tell you?”

“Nothing favorable, you may be sure. I will read you the synopsis of this information:

“‘Louis de Clameran was born at the Chateau de Clameran, near Tarascon. He had an elder brother named Gaston, who, in consequence of an affray in which he had the misfortune to kill one man and badly wound another, was compelled to fly the country in 1842. Gaston was an honest, noble youth, universally beloved. Louis, on the contrary, was a wicked, despicable fellow, detested by all who knew him.

“‘Upon the death of his father, Louis came to Paris, and in less than two years had squandered not only his own patrimony, but also the share of his exiled brother.

“‘Ruined and harassed by debt, Louis entered the army, but behaved so disgracefully that he was dismissed.

“‘After leaving the army we lose sight of him; all we can discover is, that he went to England, and thence to a German gambling resort, where he became notorious for his scandalous conduct.

“‘In 1865 we find him again at Paris. He was in great poverty, and his associates were among the most depraved classes.

“‘But he suddenly heard of the return of his brother Gaston to Paris. Gaston had made a fortune in Mexico; but being still a young man, and accustomed to a very active life, he purchased, near Orloron, an iron-mill, intending to spend the remainder of his life in working at it. Six months ago he died in the arms of his brother Louis. His death provided our De Clameran an immense fortune, and the title of marquis.’”

“Then,” said Prosper, “from all this I judge that M. de Clameran was very poor when I met him for the first time at M. Fauvel’s?”

“Evidently.”

“And about that time Lagors arrived from the country?”

“Precisely.”

“And about a month after his appearance Madeleine suddenly banished me?”

“Well,” exclaimed M. Verduret, “I am glad you are beginning to understand the state of affairs.”

He was interrupted by the entrance of a stranger.

The newcomer was a dandified-looking coachman, with elegant black whiskers, shining boots with fancy tops; buff breeches, and a yellow waistcoat with red and black stripes.

After cautiously looking around the room, he walked straight up to the table where M. Verduret sat.

“What is the news, Master Joseph Dubois?” said the stout man eagerly.

“Ah, patron, don’t speak of it!” answered the servant: “things are getting warm.”

Prosper concentrated all his attention upon this superb domestic. He thought he recognized his face. He had certainly somewhere seen that retreating forehead and those little restless black eyes, but where and when he could not remember.

Meanwhile, Master Joseph had taken a seat at a table adjoining the one occupied by M. Verduret and Prosper; and, having called for some absinthe, was preparing it by holding the water aloft and slowly dropping it in the glass.

“Speak!” said M. Verduret.

“In the first place, patron, I must say that the position of valet and coachman to M. de Clameran is not a bed of roses.”

“Go on: come to the point. You can complain to-morrow.”

“Very good. Yesterday my master walked out at two o’clock. I, of course, followed him. Do you know where he went? The thing was as good as a farce. He went to the Archangel to keep the appointment made by ‘Nina Gypsy.’”

“Well, make haste. They told him she was gone. Then?”

“Then? Ah! he was not at all pleased, I can tell you. He hurried back to the hotel where the other, M. de Lagors, awaited him. And, upon my soul, I have never heard so much swearing in my life! M. Raoul asked him what had happened to put him in such a bad humor. ‘Nothing,’ replied my master, ‘except that little devil has run off, and no one knows where she is; she has slipped through our fingers.’ Then they both appeared to be vexed and uneasy. Lagors asked if she knew anything serious. ‘She knows nothing but what I told you,’ replied Clameran; ‘but this nothing, falling in the ear of a man with any suspicions, will be more than enough to work on.’”

M. Verduret smiled like a man who had his reasons for appreciating at their just value De Clameran’s fears.

“Well, your master is not without sense, after all; don’t you think he showed it by saying that?”

“Yes, patron. Then Lagors exclaimed, ‘If it is as serious as that, we must get rid of this little serpent!’ But my master shrugged his shoulders, and laughing loudly said, ‘You talk like an idiot; when one is annoyed by a woman of this sort, one must take measures to get rid of her administratively.’ This idea seemed to amuse them both very much.”

“I can understand their being entertained by it,” said M. Verduret; “it is an excellent idea; but the misfortune is, it is too late to carry it out. The nothing which made Clameran uneasy has already fallen into a knowing ear.”

With breathless curiosity, Prosper listened to this report, every word of which seemed to throw light upon past events. Now, he thought, he understood the fragment of Gypsy’s letter. He saw that this Raoul, in whom he had confided so deeply, was nothing more than a scoundrel. A thousand little circumstances, unnoticed at the time, now recurred to his mind, and made him wonder how he could have been so blind so long.

Master Joseph Dubois continued his report:

“Yesterday, after dinner, my master decked himself out like a bridegroom. I shaved him, curled his hair, and perfumed him with special care, after which I drove him to the Rue de Provence to call on Mme. Fauvel.”

“What!” exclaimed Prosper, “after the insulting language he used the day of the robbery, did he dare to visit the house?”

“Yes, monsieur, he not only dared this, but he also stayed there until midnight, to my great discomfort; for I got as wet as a rat, waiting for him.”

“How did he look when he came out?” asked M. Verduret.

“Well, he certainly looked less pleased then when he went in. After putting away my carriage, and rubbing down my horses, I went to see if he wanted anything; I found the door locked, and he swore at me like a trooper, through the key-hole.”

And, to assist the digestion of this insult, Master Joseph here gulped down a glass of absinthe.

“Is that all?” questioned M. Verduret.

“All that occurred yesterday, patron; but this morning my master rose late, still in a horrible bad humor. At noon Raoul arrived, also in a rage. They at once began to dispute, and such a row! why, the most abandoned housebreakers and pickpockets would have blushed to hear such Billingsgate. At one time my master seized the other by the throat and shook him like a reed. But Raoul was too quick for him; he saved himself from strangulation by drawing out a sharp-pointed knife, the sight of which made my master drop him in a hurry, I can tell you.”

“But what did they say?”

“Ah, there is the rub, patron,” said Joseph in a piteous tone; “the scamps spoke English, so I could not understand them. But I am sure they were disputing about money.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because I learned at the Exposition that the word ‘argent’ means money in every language in Europe; and this word they constantly used in their conversation.”

M. Verduret sat with knit brows, talking in an undertone to himself; and Prosper, who was watching him, wondered if he was trying to understand and construct the dispute by mere force of reflection.

“When they had done fighting,” continued Joseph, “the rascals began to talk in French again; but they only spoke of a fancy ball which is to be given by some banker. When Raoul was leaving, my master said,